


Never Chain a God

by auberus, Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: Gods of Death [1]
Category: Highlander
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, GFY, Horsemen Era, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberus/pseuds/auberus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They would be harsh and demanding gods, unforgiving and unpredictable as the wild places they're born of. Gods to half the world, with mortals at their feet, terrified and adoring in one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Chain a God

**Author's Note:**

> Another variation on how Alysse meets Methos (and Kronos), this one where she met Kronos before the Horsemen were even a thought. This, and further stories in this AU are likely to be violent and gory, and involve a variety of dark themes. Heed the warnings, please.

_Carthage_ , Methos thinks, _hasn't changed at all in the past two hundred years._ He knows better, of course - all of the mortals and some of the buildings he'd known last time have gone to dust and been replaced by new ones - but it still _looks_ the same, and for a moment, he's sick to death of the entire world, finds himself wanting to burn the entire city to the ground simply for the sake of watching it turn to ash.

More and more, he finds himself wanting to break things - and people - for no better reason than because he can. It's one of the main reasons he hasn't stirred himself to regain his freedom in the forty years he's been passed from one owner to another: he's not sure what he'd do with it if he _did_ get it, but he's fairly sure it would involve a very high body count. So he follows along two steps behind the fat Carthaginian who'd bought him in Greece, his head submissively down and the chain from his collar securely in the man's chubby fist, and doesn't do anything that would cause the man's guards to kill him and thereby set him free.

The chill that goes down his spine, announcing another Immortal's close proximity is, he realizes a heartbeat later, actually twinned. He's not particularly concerned. He's a slave, not someone to whom challenges can be issued, at least not in public. If they mark him and come for him later - well, he'll deal with that when it happens. He doesn't even bother to look for them.

Kronos shares a smile with his companion when they catch the thrill of another Immortal's presence nearby, scanning the crowd to find who it might belong to. Alysse controls her horse with skill born more from manipulating ships on the seas than animals, but it's good enough to keep those around them from realizing she's more at home raiding them from the sea than from the land. Not that this trip is entirely meant for raiding, with only the two of them, and an entire city to plunder.

She tilts her head toward a rather fat man leading a slave, better able to follow the thread of another Immortal to its source than he - talent or skill, he's yet to figure out. Or even to particularly worry about; nor does now as they maneuver through the crowded streets toward their target, bringing their horses up to flank him.

"Hello, friend." Kronos is able to keep a polite expression on his face for a few minutes at a time, at least; long enough to generally get another Immortal to let down their guard so he can slice their head from their shoulders. Or, as with Alysse, other and more pleasurable past-times.

Methos' new master is named Eritius, and apparently he's an idiot. "Do I know you?" he asks, every line of his corpulent form stiff with arrogance. Methos isn't sure if he's too stupid to have heard the creeping menace beneath the speaker's friendly tones, or simply too sure of himself. Without lifting his head, he sneaks sidelong glances at both Immortals, and what he sees makes him doubly sure that Eritus is mentally defective. The woman is as beautiful - and as deadly - as an asp, and the man reminds Methos of a wolf, waiting to spring for Eritus' throat. He isn't sure whether he's glad or sorry that they haven't realized that he's the Immortal. The part of him that wants to burn Carthage to ash finds them as compelling as metal does a lodestone.

Kronos chuckles, meeting Alysse's gaze over the fat man's head, eyes glinting with a dangerous light when she shakes her head ever so faintly. She glances back at the slave being led by a chain, and drops back a little so she might check their new suspicion against her own senses.

"No." Kronos doesn't like the idea of one of their own as the slave, and he can see by how Alysse's horse dances and shies that she has little more love for it than he. Not that he'd expect anything else for a goddess. He uses his own horse to jostle the fat man, hooking a foot under the chain he holds. "Give me the slave, and maybe I'll let you live."

He might, but he knows Alysse won't, and doesn't tell the fat man that. He'll learn that soon enough, even if he gives over the chain he holds. A chain that should not be leading one of their own.

Eritus jerks the chain away from the man. It sends Methos stumbling, and he uses the movement to take a few extra steps, giving himself enough room to at least make a fight of it once death pries Eritus' hand loose from the chain.

"You're mad," the Carthaginian says, sneering. "Do you know what I paid for him? He's not just pretty and untouched; he can read and write in three languages, and do mathematics as well." He laughs coarsely. "Besides, he's as good on his knees as the most expensive whore I've ever had."

Methos' stomach tightens. He knows very well why Eritas is listing off his 'accomplishments', and while he doesn't care what happens to him, he does want to be alive for it to happen _to_. These two want his head, not what's inside it.

Alysse laughs, her voice light and strangely accented to a local ear. "I've always found men are more useful when they get up off their knees." She controls her horse with an effort, prancing it closer to the fat man. "Well, men who are worth anything."

She jostles the fat man, aiming a vicious kick at his side to make him stumble. Making it clear she doesn't think he's worth nearly as much as the slave he's hawking like common goods.

Kronos smiles, moving his horse to keep the fat man from getting too far out of Alysse's reach. The two of them ignoring the crowd that's slowly forming a circle around them to watch the show, and not one of the mortals is aware of what they have in their midst.

Eritas looks around for his guards, but they clearly have better sense than their employer, and have melted into the crowd. Methos dearly wishes that he could do the same. Instead, he staggers again as Eritas stumbles and uses the chain to keep himself balanced, and this time he falls, unable to catch himself with his hands bound behind him. He tries to get to his feet, only to be thwarted when Eritas jerks the chain again. The red, creeping rage that makes him want to burn cities and bathe in the blood of everyone who's ever dared to say they owned him is starting to rise in Methos' chest, overwhelming even his fear of facing two opponents while unarmed.

He's not sure what he missed thanks to his fall, but Eritas has gone from arrogance to fear, and is offering the end of Methos' chain to the male Immortal. "Here!" he's saying, voice a little shrill. "Take him. Just take him and let me go!"

For a moment, Methos hovers on the edge of going for Eritas' throat with his teeth. Instead, he lets himself fall heavily, this time deliberately, trying to yank the chain free of the other Immortal's grip.

Kronos laughs at the fat man, tossing the chain toward the Immortal it's attached to before he uses his foot to push the mortal back toward Alysse again. Circling his horse around so it's between the mortal and the man he'd thought to keep chained. Watching as Alysse kicks the mortal to the ground, fingering the handle of the obsidian-bladed knife she carries at her thigh.

"Get up, fat man," she calls, making her horse dance again, drawing the knife from the sturdy sheath that holds it. "Dance for your life."

Methos watches as the length of shining chain arcs through the air and lands in the dust of the street. The prudent choice - the only choice, if he wants his head to stay where it is - is to try to disappear into the crowd. With a chain and collar on, and his hands bound behind him, he'll be property again before he can go a thousand paces, but at least he'll be living property.

Except - except that he's tired of being tired, of staying alive at the cost of living, of the fury that's constantly caught in his chest, choking him. More than anything, he's tired of letting himself be chained and bound by mortals for the sake of preserving them; of letting them cage him to keep themselves safe when they don't even realize he's a danger in the first place.

He takes one cautious step back, towards the crowd, and the narrow-eyed, suspicious looks that are immediately turned on him put that last little bit of weight on the self-imposed bonds that have been holding him in place for four decades. If his hands weren't bound, if he had a weapon, he'd try to kill every last one of them. Instead, he takes two steps closer to the other Immortals, then stops, waiting. When they've finished with Eritas, they'll turn on him and he knows it, but even death is more bearable than the thought of another forty years of being owned by mortals.

Kronos watches the other Immortal out of the corner of his eye while Alysse toys with the fat mortal, a slow smile crossing his face as he watches the expression on the man's face. Not so much the meek prey he'd been imitating, but a cat caged and pacing. Perhaps one like the striped ones in the jungles he'd passed through before he found Alysse.

Growling when the mortal does nothing but cower and plead for his miserable life, Alysse shifts her weight, her horse rearing up, striking out with sharp hooves at the now-shrieking mortal. Coming down again, she nudges her horse a few steps closer, dropping off the beast with her knife in hand. Lashing out with the wickedly sharp knife, laying open the man's fat belly, spilling his guts into the dust. Leaving him to die slowly, she ignores her horse in favor of approaching the Immortal that had caught hers and Kronos' attention earlier.

"I don't want your head, friend." Her voice is light, her eyes bright as she watches him. "If you let me, I'll cut your bonds. The rest, I'll make a smith remove." Threaten or pay, she's not fussy about which, so long as they take the collar off and the chain with it. No Immortal should be bound so.

Methos studies her for a long moment before nodding. If she is after his head, there's nothing he can do at the moment to prevent her taking it. If she isn't, his hands will be free, even if he won't be. All of the watching mortals know him for a slave, and one of them will claim him, with two others to swear to the judge that he's property in exchange for a fee. If his hands are free, though, he can at least make them pay for the privilege. He's not entirely sure what's changed in the last half-hour, but he no longer wants to lock himself away from the world lest he damage it.

"Would you mind going around behind me?" he asks, returning his gaze to Eritas' writhing form. "I want to watch him die." It feels strange to speak, and stranger still to say 'I want'. He can't remember the last time he used that phrase.

Alysse grins and laughs, moving around behind him, her obsidian knife making short work of his bonds. Watching over his shoulder as the mortal dies slowly and painfully. "It is a proper thing, that he should die, friend. A worm like him should never chain a god."

Kronos keeps out of the other Immortal's line of sight to the mortal's death throes as he recaptures Alysse's horse before it can take into its mind that it can wander off. Watching the fat man die with a cruel smile on his face, eyes as cold as the far northern snows. Something he expects no mortal here has seen.

Methos flexes his freed hands, ignoring the urge to wince as feeling returns to his numb fingers. He lifts one hand to the collar, shifting it to resettle a weight that has become a discomfort all its own. The woman's words seem to echo in his mind. _A worm...should never chain a god._ Immortals are not gods; there are no gods. And for the first time, it occurs to him that in a world with no gods, perhaps Immortals are as close as it gets. He's still thinking about that when Eritas' eyes go distant - as if he sees something no one else can - and then go blank, his last breath bubbling up from between his lips. The smile that curves Methos' lips feels alien because for the first time in decades, it's genuine.

"Thank you," he says. Watching Eritas die has temporarily soothed the white-hot fury in his chest - though not completely - and the urge to wade into the crowd and start killing has eased somewhat.

"Always, friend." Alysse nods to Kronos and the horses, though there are only two. "Can you ride?" If he can, she'll ride with Kronos, and they can leave all the sooner. Or she can ride with their new companion, whatever name he has, it doesn't really matter to her. What matters most is freeing one such as them from the greedy, worthless hands like the mortal that lies broken in the dust.

Methos' eyes narrow in surprise, and he tips his head slightly to one side, studying first her and then her companion. They are the first unpredictable thing to enter his life in years, offering freedom and even companionship where they could have taken his head. His first instinct is to be wary - but he's been in their power since meeting them, and neither seems the type to let a mortal audience keep them from taking a head if they want to.

"I can. It's been a long time." Almost half a century, now. Slaves are not carried. They walk, or they carry others. "I used to love riding."

Kronos grins, and tosses the reins of the second horse toward him, reaching down to haul Alysse up behind him. It'll serve until they purchase or steal a third horse. He waits until the other Immortal is on the horse to ask, "What is your name?"

"Methos." How long has it been since he said his own name? As long as it's been since he rode, certainly. Nevertheless, the sound of it comes back easily, as does the muscle-memory of mounting a horse. He coils the chain in front of him, draping it over the horse's neck, and nudges the animal into motion, any awkwardness smoothing out within a few strides. "I'm Methos," he says again, and grins. "What about you two?"

"I am Kronos." It's not the name given to him as a child, nor the one he took when he first became a man, but one he took after he became Immortal, that defines who he is now in many ways. "She's Alysse." At least, it's the name he calls her. She's never been inclined to tell him otherwise.

Alysse echoes Methos' grin, wrapping her arms around Kronos' waist as they move away from the body, the crowd parting to let them through, trying to avoid antagonizing them and earning the same fate as the mortal who'd held Methos. She thinks perhaps it might be fun to kill them all, but not yet. Now is for acquiring a new horse, and getting Methos free of the collar and chain. Later is for destruction and ashes on the wind.

* * *

A new horse is easier to acquire than someone willing to remove the collar from Methos' neck. In the end, Kronos picks a smith near the edge of the city, and lets Alysse at him before he and Methos enter to have the collar removed. Though, he does keep her obsidian knife, so they don't have to go find another smith to intimidate.

"See, nothing all that difficult, just remove one little collar from our friend, and we'll be gone as if we were never here." Alysse is perched on the wall that surrounds the smith's courtyard, swinging her feet as she watches the mortal who's regarding her with wary fear. One of her arms is wrapped around a small child, the other balancing her on the wall. "Otherwise, well, children make such lovely splats on the ground when they fall. Or are thrown."

Methos watches the man silently for a moment before turning to Kronos. "Can I trust you to keep his hands from shaking too badly?" he asks. He can't imagine what's possessed him, to offer this kind of trust to another Immortal, but he doesn't want to take it back. He turns to look at the smith again, tilting his head to one side as he examines the man. "I don't want his fear to make him sloppy, or a desire to hurry us out of here to make him careless." He turns back to Kronos again, catching and holding his gaze, smiling faintly. "If he so much as singes me, cut his hands off."

Kronos laughs, clasping Methos' shoulder briefly. "Gladly." He gives the smith a smile that's all teeth and danger, a warning to keep his work very neat indeed. Lounging against one of the poles that holds up the roof above the work-space, watching as the smith gathered the tools to remove the collar. He wonders for a moment if Alysse has already murdered the smith's woman, or if the woman's had the luck to die with the birth of the child on the wall. "Alysse, where's the woman?"

"Cowering inside, hoping to protect the other children, no doubt. They've a couple pretty ones who might work hard, or fetch a nice price." Alysse shrugs, petting the hair of the small child she's holding. "This one I'd keep for myself, I think. Wouldn't do to leave her to starve if her father has no hands to provide for her." If, of course, they don't simply slaughter the family if the smith can't do the job right.

Methos has raised children of his own, and he knows that there was a time when he would have been appalled by Alysse's words. Right now, though, all he feels is a cold, empty fury that will take bloodshed to sate, and if he weren't still collared, the smith would likely be dead already. The children don't interest him enough to be worth either killing or protecting, but if Alysse wants one, he won't object.

He has to kneel with his head on the anvil, and the jolt of fear as the hammer comes down is like being struck by lightning, leaving him humming with adrenaline in its wake. The collar is in two pieces on the anvil, and he picks it up, turning it over in his hands. He's worn it, or one like it, for four decades now, and when he puts a hand to his newly-bare neck, the skin there is almost unbearably sensitive.

In a way, it was the visible symbol of the restraints he'd placed on himself, and those restraints went when the collar did. He's not armed, but Kronos' dagger is on his belt, in easy reach. Methos plucks it free and turns, bringing his arm up and out in a single smooth movement that leaves the smith clutching at his newly-slit throat. Blood fountains up between his fingers and he falls, while Methos wipes Kronos' knife on his own tunic (which is already beyond repair) before handing it back to its owner.

Accepting his knife back with a broad grin, Kronos ignores the shrill scream from the child on the wall, heading for the house at the back of the courtyard. No reason to leave the woman or her brood to suffer long lives without the smith. Not when he can enjoy their suffering now, and dispatch them in blood and agony. He pauses at the doorway, looking back at Methos with an inviting grin. "Are you joining me, Methos?" Slaughter is always more enjoyable with company, as are other pursuits where Alysse, while creative, is not as adept.

Alysse laughs from her perch on the wall, dragging the child she's holding into her lap, and holding the small girl close. She'll tire of having a child to cradle eventually, and Kronos will be amused to see what Alysse does with the child when that happens. Perhaps they'll even stay near the ocean until then.

Methos shrugs. Slaughtering women and children doesn't particularly appeal to him, any more than it bothers him. It's certainly not something he feels like going out of his way to do.

"Why don't we just barricade them in and set the house on fire?" he suggests. "I'd rather have a bath and a whore and a good meal than linger over them, unless you're particularly set on slaughtering them all by hand - in which case, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to loan me your knife again."

Kronos shrugs, looking into the room at the fearful faces that watch him like rabbits watching a fox. "I'm not particular about how they're killed. Their pain is enough." He grins at the leap of fear in their faces, and steps back. "Give me a hand with closing them in, brother." The word feels right, and he grins at Methos again, tucking his knife back in his belt.

"Gladly." It's a simple enough manner to barricade the little hut. Halfway through, the woman starts screaming, which of course sets the children off as well. Something about the sound - the panic, perhaps, or the pleading - is deeply satisfying. Maybe it's simply that he's not powerless any more; that he's no longer bound, either by mortals or by chains of his own creation. As the first flames lick their way up the walls of the little house, Methos watches, smiling. **This** is what it means to be Immortal - to be the most powerful thing under the sun, answerable to no one and nothing. Being afraid of no one and nothing - not even the darkness in his own soul.

Alysse hops down from the wall, the child still held in her arms, despite the girl's wailing and struggles, smiling as the fire starts to consume the house and the family within, laughing at the screams that grow ever more shrill until they start to fade away. "Harsh and demanding gods, as unforgiving and unpredictable as sea or desert or steppe," she murmurs, shifting the girl to one hip as she leans against Kronos. "We three could be gods to half the world. Mortals at our feet, terrified and adoring at once."

It's a vision that appeals to Kronos, and he looks at Methos, raising an eyebrow in invitation. For now, the bath, maybe whore or two - or better, each other - and a meal, but after, there's no reason to remain here, and nothing to stop them from becoming the gods they're meant to be.

Alysse's words are a slightly different echo of Methos' own earlier musings, almost as much as does the idea of no longer being alone in a world full of mortals. Meeting Kronos' questioning look, he nods slowly.

"Why not?" he asks. "After all, we're the closest thing they'll ever get." He smiles tightly. His first owner, forty years earlier, had been a priest of Zeus. "If they want gods so badly, brother, by all means, let's give the people what they want." And no one, mortal or Immortal, will ever try to chain him again. "Let's give them gods."

* * *

The bath at the inn where Kronos and Alysse have taken rooms is long enough even for Methos, and he spends two hours there, in water so hot as to be almost scalding, and doesn't even get out to eat. He orders the food brought in and eats until he's full, then washes his hands and face again before getting out and pulling on the clothing another attendant had brought into the room along with his food. By the time he's dressed, he feels almost human, though no amount of food or hot water will ease the furious emptiness inside of him. However, the deaths of the smith and his family, and of Eritas, have left that particular hunger temporarily sated. He finds Kronos and Alysse in the small room that is temporarily theirs, and nods at them as he enters, looking around the room.

In the corner, the girl Alysse had decided to keep is curled in a ball on a mat, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted and miserable, though she's been quiet since Alysse half-drowned her in the bath, and for that much, Kronos is glad. He still doesn't understand why she wants to keep the girl, save that she's a passing interest.

"Join us, brother." Kronos is sprawled out on the low bed that takes up the corner across from where the child sleeps, with Alysse coiled against him, picking at the remains of their own meal set out on a table beside it. "Did you enjoy your bath?"

"Very much, thank you." The memory is enough to bring a smile to Methos' face as he crosses the room to join them. He sits down on the bed on Kronos' other side, but does not touch: he's not sure how far the invitation to join them extends, and he doesn't want to intrude, despite - or perhaps because of - how tempting he finds them both. "It was the best one I've had in four decades."

"Too long to wait for proper treatment." Alysse shifts, sprawling across Kronos' lap to look up at them both. Reaching out to finger the fabric of the tunic Methos is dressed in. "At least the tailor had the sense to dress you properly."

Kronos rests a hand on Alysse's hip, the other propping him up on his elbow, a smile on his face for the work the tailor has done - though he's more interested in what lies beneath it at the moment. "No need to sit so stiffly, brother." The word now a reminder that they've invited him not just for the night, but forever, and there's no need to keep himself separate.

Methos lets himself relax, leaning back against the pillows behind him. He's still not sure enough of himself or the place that's intended for him to reach for either of them, despite the invitation in Kronos' voice and smile, and in Alysse's eyes. He's not sure what Kronos means by 'brother', and though both hope and instinct are telling him the same thing, he can't _quite_ make himself believe them.

Alysse makes an impatient noise, rolling across Kronos to land on Methos, ignoring the former's grunt when her elbow lands on his sternum. "Come, brother, don't be so shy." She strokes her fingers across his chest over the tunic, giving him a slow smile.

The touch of Alysse's fingers makes Methos shiver, his long-neglected body reacting strongly to even such simple contact. He slides his hand into the darkness of Alysse's hair, bringing his mouth down on hers and kissing her hungrily, one arm wrapping around her waist to pull her hard against him.

Humming happily into the kiss, Alysse slides one hand down to grab the edge of Methos' tunic, tugging it up enough to get her hands under it. Sliding her hands up his sides, raking her nails lightly over his skin. Encountering one of Kronos' hands as he takes advantage of the rucked-up tunic to explore as well, encouraging Methos to shift his weight enough that they can remove his tunic between them.

Methos moves over obligingly, breaking off the kiss to allow them to pull his tunic over his head, leaning into the touch of their hands. Kronos' are larger than Alysse's, hers more heavily callused. Both sets leave trails of fire in their wake, leave Methos breathing hard, his eyes sliding closed beneath the weight of sensation. He turns his head to meet Kronos' mouth with his own, bites his lip almost hard enough to draw blood before deepening the kiss. He has one hand on Kronos' chest, sliding down, and the other tangled in Alysse's hair, his thumb stroking gently over her cheekbone.

Kronos laughs, a hand at the back of Methos' neck as he greedily nips at Methos' lips, sliding his other hand over the curve of Alysse's hip, her skin soft as the fine silk they make in the east. Bucking his hips upward in silent request for where that hand of Methos' goes.

Smiling wickedly, Alysse leans down to press open-mouthed kisses down Methos' bare chest, following well-defined muscles down to nip at the hollow of his hip. Shifting so she's half-sprawled over one thigh, a hand between his legs to cup his balls as she watches his face.

Methos runs his fingertips down over the muscles of Kronos' stomach, wraps his hand around Kronos' cock, the feel of it familiar and unknown at the same time. He takes a sharp breath as Alysse slides her hand between his legs, head falling backwards as his hips tip upwards, seeking more contact. It's been too long, far too long, since he's been able to indulge himself like this.

Alysse grins, turning her head to nip at the inside of Methos' hip again before she leans in to lick a stripe up the underside of his cock. Watching him and watching Kronos, her free hand sliding down between her own legs to provide her own pleasure in counterpoint to the visual feast.

Kronos hisses when Methos' hand closes around him, grinning fiercely as he takes advantage of the throat bared to him, nipping hard enough to draw blood, though the marks won't last. Claiming Methos as Alysse is doing the same in her own fashion. Three of them, all gods together.

Kronos' teeth and Alysse's mouth wring a low cry from Methos. His grip tightens in Alysse's hair, his other hand stilling momentarily on Kronos' cock. He's aching with desire, the long stretch of self-denial - of all sorts - intensifying every touch, even that of the air on his skin

Nuzzling the soft skin of Methos' inner hip, Alysse hums to herself as she watches Kronos, barely aware of their surroundings - though not so unaware as not to notice the clatter of sandles coming into the room, where they don't belong. She snarls at the interruption, twisting around with unexpected speed to glare poisonously at the men who have invaded and disrupted the pleasurable activities of the evening.

Methos sits up, not bothering to cover himself. "You have the wrong room," he says coldly, refraining from reaching for a weapon only because he doesn't feel like bringing the guard down on them all. He's furious at being interrupted, especially by mortals, and the looks that the youngest of them is sending his way make him want to cut the man's eyes out of his head. "Get out."

Kronos doesn't even bother to sit up, rolling enough to lounge on the bed, watching the man with eyes that gleam with unsuppressed malice and the promise of violence if they don't listen to Methos. He supposes it's a pity that the one has the courage to step forward, his jaw set.

"You murdered Eritius. We're not letting you get away with it."

"And what's to stop us from murdering you for interrupting our evening?" Alysse's voice is low, the sibilants in the words almost hissed with her anger. She shifts her weight, coiled tension in the lines of her body, like a snake waiting to strike.

The man brandishes a weapon, as if that's going to stop the three he's facing, or even give him a real chance at surviving his idiocy.

Methos gets to his feet in one smooth motion. He has no weapons of his own, but there's a sword in the corner and within reach that has to be Alysse's, as well as a long dagger. He stretches out a hand for it, and none of the morons in the doorway even bother to try stopping him. From the contempt in their eyes, he's fairly sure that they don't think a slave any kind of threat, even with a weapon in his hand. He's looking forward to proving them wrong.

"Brother, if you would," he says, his voice deceptively mild, "make sure the young one stays alive? For looking at me like that, I'm going to cut out his eyes." Something in his tone seems to get through to one of them - his eyes narrow in concern - but the others laugh. Methos doesn't mind. They won't laugh for much longer. He offers Alysse her sword, which is a touch too light for his taste, and picks up the long dagger that had been next to it instead.

Alysse takes the sword, her eyes on the one who'd spoken, tensing to spring a split second before she does so, hitting him with all her weight behind the thrust of her blade, burying it up to the hilt in his gut. Meeting his startled stare as the air rushes out of him with the impact. Waiting for the shock to fade enough for the pain to hit, laughing at the scream that claws its way out of his throat as soon as he can draw the air to do so. She knows his wound isn't immediately fatal, and she twists her blade to increase the pain, watching him as he falls to his knees, still screaming.

"As you wish, brother." Kronos speaks as Alysse launches herself at the leader, coming to his feet in one smooth move. It's the work of a moment to separate the youngest from the rest, and he knocks him down easily. Ignoring his own sword in favor of simply pushing the boy around - it's not as satisfying as murdering him, but he finds Methos' idea appealing, so he'll contain his desire to kill for the moment.

The long knife bites deeply into the chest of the third man, who turns out to be the luckiest among his friends. Methos reaches his heart with the first thrust and twists his wrist sharply, letting the man's own heartbeat finish the work of destroying that heart. The last one has enough time to get his blade clear of the scabbard, but Methos steps inside his guard, hitting him hard in the face with the hand holding the knife. It sends him reeling back, clutching at his broken nose, and Methos hamstrings him. He falls to the ground shrieking, his hands now grabbing futilely at a leg that will never bear his weight again, even if he lives. Methos drops to one knee beside him, and puts the blade of the knife against his throat. Leaning down, he speaks directly into the man's ear, his voice low and dispassionate. "Stop screaming, or I'll slit you open from ear to ear."

The man obeys. His eyes are wild with pain and fear, his gaze flicking to one of his captors after another. He doesn't so much as glance at his friends, dead or alive.

As the screams of her victim fade to whimpers and from there to nothing, Alysse sighs, shaking her head with a gently mocking expression on her face. "Well, that's a disappointment. These western men have no stamina."

Kronos finally trips the boy he's been terrifying, laying him out flat on his back, and bringing his foot to rest on the boy's throat. Silent threat that keeps him still and wary. "They're mortal. They all die like sheep."

"Still." Alysse kicks the corpse at her feet after she yanks her sword free. "That was rather boring. Not enough entertainment for his rudeness."

"That's why I got you a present," Methos tells her, standing back up. "I thought you and Kronos might like to amuse yourselves while I ensure that our other new friend learns that it's bad manners to look at the gods like that, and teach him to be more courteous." Keeping his tone casual is no struggle at all. The blood drying on the floor and on his hands, and the prospect of more to come, has eased that ache in his psyche again.

"You're not gods," the man at his feet says defiantly. Methos tilts his head, regarding the mortal much as he would a new species of animal.

"I think we have a real believer here," he says. Crouching down so that his face is level with his captive's, he catches the man's gaze with his own and holds it; watches the blood drain out of the mortal's face. "I spent a hundred years serving Apollo, believer, and he never did me any favors." Without looking away from him, Methos raises his left hand, showing both captives his unmarked palm, then slices it open with the knife in his other hand. He cuts deep, deeply enough that a flash of bone shows white through the welling blood - but only for an instant. The next flash is blue, as Methos' Quickening takes over, knitting the wound back together so that barely a smear of blood remains. "We're the only gods you're going to get, mortal, and Death doesn't listen to prayers or pleading."

Alysse laughs, her eyes gleaming with a light that the people who'd first named her goddess would recognize and fear. "Nor shall sacrifice appease, or service satisfy. Others have tried both, and still they died when I wished them to die." She looks over at Methos, her smile wide and cheerful. "I think I'm going to enjoy this present."

"I hope so," Methos says, with an echo of a courtesy he'd once used with everyone, and had decided to dispense with now, with everyone save Alysse and Kronos. "I know I appreciate yours, brother," he says, looking at Kronos with undisguised appreciation, then back at Alysse with the same. Both of them half-dressed, save only for the blood spattering them. He himself is completely nude, and the fight has done nothing to decrease the desire running through his veins. If anything, it's increased that hunger. First things first, though, Methos thinks, and shoves Alysse's present to the floor at her feet. He turns to his own toy, noting with pleasure that the man's eyes are a particularly lovely shade of greenish-blue. There is, after all, no point in destroying ugly things. Crouching down in front of their other captive, he looks up at Kronos.

"Will you hold him for me, brother? I don't want to do any other damage. Not right now, anyway."

Kronos grins, shifting his foot so he can crouch down across from Methos. "Of course, brother." He moves around to sit cross-legged on the floor behind the boy's head, pulling him closer so he Kronos isn't leaning over him while holding his head still. Hands to either side of the downy-cheeked face, fingers digging into the jawline, thumbs pressing into his temples.

He grins as Alysse drags her present into his line-of-sight, sword abandoned in favor of a pair of knives, bronze and obsidian. She croons softly in a language unknown to this part of the world as she takes up the bronze knife to slice away the tunic that will only hinder whatever she has planned. It's left aside once its served its purpose, obsidian blade held poised as she studies the man who lies terrified in front of her. The fine edge of the blade leaves cuts that don't register until they burn like fire, as he well knows.

"Shh," Methos says, smiling gently at the boy, who whimpers. He cradles the boy's chin almost gently, then lifts the knife. He lifts the blade to one beautiful, long-lashed eye, and looks up at Kronos, holding the other Immortal's gaze as he presses down on the blade. The boy screams and makes a sobbing noise, trying to struggle, but it does no good. Methos looks into the boy's remaining eye for a long moment before lifting the knife again.

Once it's over, he couldn't care less about the boy's fate, though with the blood running like tears down each cheek, he's a stunning visual picture. Methos studies him for a moment, taking it in, then decides in favor of mercy and slits his throat with one smooth move. The spray of blood leaves his chest and the left side of his face wet with blood.

The feel of blood under his fingers, and the sight of it spattered crimson across Methos' pale skin is as arousing as the violence earlier, and Kronos lets the dead boy's head go to haul Methos closer by the throat, biting at his lips, hungry and demanding. The screams that start from where Alysse is toying with her present provide a counterpoint to the rush of blood in his ears and the feel of Methos' pulse under his fingers.

Kronos' hand on his throat has Methos hard again even before the bruising descent of his mouth. He tastes blood and doesn't know if it's his or Kronos' or the dead boy's. He doesn't care. Kronos' grip is tight enough that Methos' blood is starting to thunder in his ears, his breath to rasp beneath Kronos' palm, and he gets one hand in Kronos' tunic, pulls him closer. "Fuck me," he demands against Kronos' mouth, punctuating his words with a bite to Kronos' lower lip that draws blood. Methos licks it off, presses his body against Kronos'. "I've spent forty years being passed from one mortal to another. When you're finished with me, I don't ever want to feel their hands on me again."

Laughing, low and feral, Kronos shifts his weight enough to get his feet under him, hauling Methos with him as he stands, pulling him to the bed. Wordless promise that he'd wash the last fourty years from Methos' skin, letting go only long enough to strip off his own tunic, scars from his mortal life fine, pale lines on skin darkened by time in the sun. He rolls Methos onto his face, hands rough against Methos' skin; kneeling behind him, spreading Methos' legs wide.

Methos shudders silently, letting Kronos spread him open, bracing himself with his forearms. He hasn't Kronos' warrior's scars, has no idea what his mortal life entailed, save for the thin, even white stripes on his back that even most lovers never notice, and he has no memory of receiving. He wants this, is _aching_ for it, his cock hard against his belly, his muscles trembling in anticipation. He knows it's going to hurt, and he's ready for it, ready for the burn of Kronos sliding into him, washing every last mortal touch from his skin with touches that burn like fire. He's a child, brilliant with life and youth and the certainty that nothing can hurt him, and Methos wants nothing more than to use that heat, to warm the fires in his own soul that have gone to dying embers.

His hands tight on Methos' hips, Kronos pushes in with no preparation, no warning beyond the flex of his fingers. Slow rocking until he's seated to the hilt, head tilted back at the heat that grips him. He sets his pace to the screams and wails that echo behind him, one hand gripping Methos' hip tight enough it would have bruised a mortal's skin, the other coming up to grip the back of Methos' neck, holding his face down to the bed as Kronos fucks him rough and hard.

The white-hot lance of agony that shoots through him tears a gasp from Methos, but pain is pleasure is agony is ecstasy, and Kronos is filling him, pressing him open, thrusting into him with a force that's splitting him, remaking him, changing from a hurt to a pleasure so deep as to be almost pain, and Methos is pressing back against him, urging him on, his own cock forgotten in favour of what Kronos is wringing from him.

Methos pushing back against him, moving with his thrusts makes Kronos laugh, the sound fierce and joyous as he moves faster, pushing toward release as the screams behind him die to whimpers, the wails to hiccuping sobs. Wet footsteps pad toward them, Alysse coming into view as unclothed as he and Methos, skin painted red with blood in spatters and swirls. Her hands are still wet as she reaches for them, leaving crimson streaks down Methos' back, a bloody hand-print on Kronos' face.

Methos grabs her, yanking her to him with one arm and pushing up with the other, sliding her beneath him. He brings his mouth down to one breast, sucking her nipple into his mouth, biting not-quite gently before soothing it with his tongue, sucking at it for a moment before following the curve of her breast with his tongue, bringing his mouth lower, first to the curve of her abdomen and then biting at her inner thigh before lowering his mouth to the dark curls between her legs, two fingers of one hand pressing inside her while he licked and sucked gently at her clit, watching her face through his lashes.

Letting out her breath all at once when she hits the bed, Alysse laughs soundlessly until she sucks in a gasping breath at Methos' mouth on her breast. Arching into him, and shifting as he continues lower, hooking one leg over his back, reaching back to press her other foot flat against Kronos' thigh. Keening when Methos presses fingers into her, demanding more in the language of her mortal life.

Methos adds a third finger, watching rapt at the expression on Alysse's face until Kronos thrusts into him again, hitting his prostate and sending ecstasy sparking through him, wringing a cry from his lips. He grabs Alysse by the waist, pulling her down so that he can thrust into her, the tight wet heat of her surrounding him, let Kronos drive him into her again and again. He takes her other breast into his mouth, licks the curve of it before flicking his tongue over her nipple, while one hand slides between their bodies to find her clit again, stroking it with his thumb every time he thrusts into her. He kisses her collarbone, biting gently at it, then wraps his other hand in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. He bites the curve of muscle there, not gently at all, and sooths the marks with his tongue before doing it again, and again.

Arching her back, Alysse moves with them, feet pressing flat against the bed to arch her hips up, hands gripping Methos' shoulders hard enough for her nails to draw blood. Sweat mixing with the blood drying on her skin, demanding and praising in equal measure in both words and movements. Coming hard with a shriek, and pressing closer; she barely has a chance to come down before the pleasure begins to build again.

Kronos growls, low and fiercely possessive as he watches Alysse's face, as he thrusts harder and faster, leaning forward to wrap his hand around Methos' throat, thumb pressing just under his jaw as he squeezed. Seeking to push Methos over the edge as he shifts the angle just enough that he hits Methos' prostate with each thrust. Feeling his balls drawing tight, a snarl emerging from him as he finds orgasm, fire-sweet and sun-bright.

Methos cries out, Alysse shuddering under him as Kronos does the same above him, around him, inside him. The hand on his throat, Kronos' thumb pressing hard against that spot under his jaw, Kronos' cock hitting that spot inside him, sending pleasure convulsing, sparking desperately through him. His release hits almost like a death, his vision whiting out, his body spasming in ecstasy beyond his control.

Not bothering to attempt to keep from collapsing against Methos, Kronos lets out a low chuckle as he catches his breath, rolling off after a moment to sprawl on his back, satiated for the moment. Unconcerned for what anyone else in the wayhouse might think of the noise from their room, or will think of the bodies that are sprawled across the floor. After a moment, he feels Alysse's hand against his shoulder, just reaching out for contact, fingers curling against his skin as she settles.

Methos, too, rolls free after a moment, sitting up in the bed and glancing at Alysse's handiwork, nodding approvingly at it. They'll likely have to move after this - or possibly dispose of the rest of the inn's inhabitants. Assuming, of course, that Alysse and Kronos intend to keep him around for more than a few days and nights of bloody entertainment. He's surprised by how much that thought bothers him, but he pushes it aside as best he can, standing up and stretching luxuriously. If he is destined to be alone again - well, he has the knowledge he's gained from the two of them, and he knows better than to let himself be chained again, either by mortals or by his own conscience.

"Come back to bed, brother," Alysse murmurs sleepily, rolling to nestle into Kronos' side where she fits neatly with her head pillowed on his shoulder. Watching Methos with half-closed eyes that are more aware than her expression suggests they should be. "Stay with us." For the night, for a century, forever if he were inclined to. "It'll be lonely out in that desert on your own. A god shouldn't be alone."

Methos turns to look at them, and for a moment, the pang of loneliness that stabs into his chest threatens to take his breath away. They look like they _fit_ together, so easily, so much more easily than he's ever been able to fit anywhere. They're such a _temptation_ , too, bright and beautiful and so, so young, and he wants them, both of them, in a way he hasn't wanted anything or anyone in well over a thousand years.

It's only a few steps back to the bed, and while Methos knows he can't hide the desire in his face, he hopes he's managed to lock away five millenia of loneliness back behind the walls where it belongs. He stops for a second at the edge of it, not sure where he ought to be.

Alysse sits up, reaching to grab Methos' hand, and tugging hard. Pulling him down between her and Kronos, curling into Methos' side as readily as she had into Kronos', shifting until she was comfortably nested against him. "You'll stay, yes?" she murmurs, tilting her head so she can look at him, her head pillowed against his shoulder. "Gods of the wild places mortals fear, death borne on horse and blade, unpredictable and inescapable as sands and sea."

Methos closes his eyes, lifting one hand to her dark hair, and turns so that his own head is resting on Kronos' chest. He can hear the steady thump of Kronos' heartbeat, just a fraction behind his own. He **belongs** here, in a way he doesn't think he's ever really belonged anywhere: he won't have to hide himself any more, or pretend to be less than he is, and the relief just the **thought** provokes is both profound and enormous.

"I'll stay," he promises. Already he can tell that he'll be able to sleep, and sleep well. He can't remember how long it's been since he's done that - a century, maybe? Longer? It doesn't matter, not any more. "We'll have the world at our feet." He laughs softly. "Come to think of it, we already do."

Alysse laughs softly, reaching out to tangle the fingers of one hand with Kronos, connecting them all as they slip into slumber.


End file.
